


come and dance with me

by jadebloods



Series: HSWC 2014 Fills [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blue Balls, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Coitus Interruptus, HSWC, M/M, Oral Sex, Prompt Fill, Public Groping, Starbucks, emotionless sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:45:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1693757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadebloods/pseuds/jadebloods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CRONUS: vwhat i'm trying to say here is that i vwant to engage in a mutual stimulation of erogenous zones vwith you, perhaps in a starbucks hygiene block, and then make a wvery humble request about possibly getting you to hop on the bandvwagon for my nevwest project.<br/>CRONUS: but i really can't emphasize enough the part vwhere i blovw you to obliwvion vwithout any expectation that this vwill affect your decision vwith respect to my musical endeawvors, because that's just the kind of selfless guy i am.<br/>CRONUS: vwhat do you say?</p>
            </blockquote>





	come and dance with me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for the HSWC Bonus Round 1, with the following [prompt](http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/18819.html?thread=3283075#cmt3283075):
> 
> Remember that time Cronus tried so hard to get Dirk to join his (shitty, awful, poser, ~~amazing~~ ) band even though Dirk doesn't even remotely do that kind of music?

You should never have given that troll your real phone number. Actually, you aren't 100% on the probability that you ever gave him your phone number at all, and you wouldn't put it past him to have texted himself from your phone after your mostly diurnal ass had passed out around five in the morning. Okay, so maybe your mistake was letting him into your apartment in the first place, instead of just fucking his wordhole in the alley behind that gross bar like you had originally intended to do.

Maybe then you wouldn't be entertaining thirsty-ass text messages from him at all hours of the day when you're supposed to be hard at work on your capstone robotics project. While you're settling in for the evening by burying yourself elbow-deep in sheet metal, your phone sings out with a rousing chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody, as covered by William Shatner, before buzzing itself off of the workbench and into a pile of dirty rags. It had been funny at first, but you're thinking of changing it, because you aren't sure that William Shatner's good name deserves to be tarnished by a Pavlovian association with Cronus Ampora.

CRONUS: hey there, friend. vwhat are you up to on this fine ewvening?  


CRONUS: i vwas just getting a mocha and thought you might like to svwing by. let me get you all caffeinated at this crepuscular hour and then come owver to my hiwve and maybe listen to some music i'wve been vworking on. i could use your professional input.  


CRONUS: i could also use your human bulge in my mouth, if that vwasn't crystal clear.  


CRONUS: *dick. i mean your dick, obwviously.  


CRONUS: vwhat i'm trying to say here is that i vwant to engage in a mutual stimulation of erogenous zones vwith you, perhaps in a starbucks hygiene block, and then make a wvery humble request about possibly getting you to hop on the bandvwagon for my nevwest project.  


CRONUS: but i really can't emphasize enough the part vwhere i blovw you to obliwvion vwithout any expectation that this vwill affect your decision vwith respect to my musical endeawvors, because that's just the kind of selfless guy i am.  


CRONUS: vwhat do you say? 

You twist your mouth to the side, thinking about it while wiping grease off of your hands and phone with some of the rags from the pile. The whole weekend had been earmarked for this capstone project, but you had finished programming all of the functions required for your grade into it weeks ago. Right now you're finishing up the aesthetic details, which are very fucking important, but are they more important than blovwjo--fuck, than _blowjobs_?

Wait, there's a necessary clause that needs to be added here: Are they more important than blowjobs from the most contemptible acquaintance you have?

Probably not, but there's also the argument that the last time he sucked your dick, you came so hard that you fell down. You came so hard that you fell flat on your ass in your kitchen at four in the goddamn morning, and it hadn't been something you could anticipate or counter-correct because it happened so sharply and so quickly. It drives you up the wall to know that he saw you make an idiot out of yourself like that, not to mention the gut-twisting, throbbing embarrassment centered somewhere in the vicinity of your bruised tailbone, which had lingered for the full week afterward and spiked angrily every time you tried to sit down. That's also pretty fucking important data to consider, which is exactly what you do while you scroll through your ringtones to find something more suitable for a troll that you can't stand to look at unless his lips are on your shaft. Oh yeah, this one is good.

DIRK: Yeah, okay. 

You know you shouldn't encourage him, that seeing him again is likely to just make him think the two of you are hatedating or something, and pretty soon you're going to be denying requests to make your kismesissitude Facebook official on the daily. You know that, but your half-chub is making one hell of a convincing case in favor of getting blown in the coffee shop and then bailing before he can weasel you away to a second location. Also, you need to redeem yourself for the incident where your faculties all decided to bug out on you at once last time. You're a stronger man now. You haven't had a single shot of Cuervo.

The phone buzzes again in your hand as Cronus confirms your reluctant agreement with wvell vwell wvelvlw, it's a date then, reminding you that there's shit that needs doing instead of just standing in your workroom, palming the crotch of your jeans and staring off into space like a slack-jawed simpleton. The buzz startles you more than the new tone, which is your boy Kanye launching into a chorus of "Let's have a toast for the douchebags, let's have a toast for the assholes..."

Hell yes, that is so much more fitting.

 

The campus Starbucks is packed to the brim with students, human and troll alike, lounging on every available flat surface with their laptops and textbooks. Most of them look as though they haven't taken a break from their trenta iced coffee-fueled study bender to do anything as mundane as shower or eat solid food in at least 48 hours. Cronus is easy to find--he's sitting at a table in the back, near the bathrooms, chewing on the straw of his own frozen mocha and staring intently at something on his husktop. His table is the only one that isn't crammed with students. In fact, his table is the only one with any empty chairs at all.

You don't have to wonder why. "Hey," you croak, pushing a pile of soggy, unlit cigarettes out of the way before sitting down on the other side of the table. He must have gnawed on almost a full pack of these fucking things since getting here.

Cronus looks up at you, then back down at his screen, and then quickly back up at you before yanking out his earbuds. "Oh hey, buddy," he warbles a little too loudly, earning a few angry looks from nearby tables and a barely audible hiss from an oliveblood across the aisle, which she sustains all though his extended slurping of the whipped cream dregs at the bottom of his straw. "Tough crowd tonight," he says a little more quietly, his eyes flashing with anger for a moment at the oliveblood before he composes himself, putting on a carefully crafted weary and self-effacing expression. "I tried to liven this place up by playing some of my new tunes, but these Philistines wouldn't know musical genius if it slapped them on the fleshy face bumpers with its bulge."

"Yeah. They're studying for-- Man, do you even go to this school?" You shake your head. "Nope, don't answer that. I don't actually want to know. All I want to know is if you plan to make good on that tile floor action you promised me. I'm good to go." You're not kidding about that either, because the semi you left home with had only gotten realer with every step over here. You are so ready to fuck this guy's face open and then be done with him forever.

"Occupied," he shrugs, hooking a clawed thumb over his shoulder at the closed door of the men's room. "Hey, why don't you slide that tight human posterior of yours over here for a second, I wanna show you something."

You press your lips together, torn between not wanting to be seen as being too _with_ this guy and not wanting to be so rude to him that he backs out of being amenable to blowing you as soon as the bathroom is available. It is difficult to stand back up without tenting your jeans, which should be embarrassing because public erections are pretty inexcusable once you get past sixteen years old or so, but you're wrestling with an awful lot of anticipation right now. Somehow you manage a half-crouch that swings you around the table and into the seat next to Cronus on the other side. 

He smiles at you in a knowing way that makes you wish you could wrench his mouth right off of his face. "Hello there, champ," he says, sliding a hand into your lap under the table and cupping your dick through the denim. "Finally, someone who appreciates me in this festering pit of mediocrity." He rubs his thumb back and forth over your head, making you sink down in the chair and hold your breath, holding in the urge to punch him for daring to touch you, but also holding back your traitorous mouth from telling him to go harder.

"What's that?" you ask with a nod at his husktop screen, a quick misdirection ploy to take the attention off of your crotch for a moment. It's also a facetious question, because you know exactly what it is--a synthesizer program, and a pretty shitty one at that, not that you expect him to be able to tell the difference.

"It's a-- Hey, wait. What do you know about sawtooth waves?" he asks, thankfully taking his hand off of you now that you've made the mistake of showing an interest in his musical pursuits. As it turns out, you know quite a lot about sawtooth waves, so you put in one of his earbuds and walk him through the program controls while you text Roxy under the table.

DIRK: Hey, I have a new senior thesis project idea for you. Somebody needs to investigate the sublingual bioavailability of nicotine in trolls. I got a feeling that this guy's habit is a little more of a physiological dependence than just a nervous tic or pretentious affectation.  


ROXY: omEFFg are u hangin with that troll from last week?  


DIRK: No.  


ROXY: my adorbs butt ur not i bet hes sittin right there being all hells of inappropes for whatever kind of public situation ur in rn  


DIRK: Look, I don't want to talk about it.  


ROXY: right cause i was totes the one txting u outta the b100 with pertinent deets abt my random ass booty calls oral fixation  


ROXY: hm wait  


ROXY: ass booty is kinda redundant isnt it  


DIRK: Or maybe I had a good idea and wanted to share it with you, since it seemed relevant to your interests and I care about your academic success.  


ROXY: what a sweetie im sure  


ROXY: so r u gonna bone him or............?  


DIRK: I'm sure as hell not here for the conversation. Or the being seen with him in public. Or the letting him get to know anything about me.  


DIRK: But yeah, I was lured out of my apartment under the pretense of semi-public sex in a Starbucks bathroom.  


DIRK: Doesn't have the same ring to it as Burger King bathroom, does it? But I'm not in a position to be choosy about where I get my morally ambiguous lavatory licentiousness on, since I'm pretty eager to get it over with and abandon this entire sexual thread as soon as humanly possible.  


DIRK: Starbucks has to be cleaner than Burger King, right? I'm one up.  


ROXY: wow dirk rude  


ROXY: thats actually kinda fucked up  


ROXY: yes hes hella anonying like anyone can see that but that doesnt mean u gotta use him abuse him and lose him  


ROXY: like my girl donna meagle says  


ROXY: actually no maybe thats exactly what u should do i mean meagle has the WISDOM  


DIRK: By that logic I should also be making him wait in the car. That's an appealing option, since I wouldn't have to be seen with him. It doesn't really facilitate my quest to get head in the coffee shop head, though.  


ROXY: dont froget to roll the windows down  


ROXY: wait no im goin back to my original asssssessment of the sitch  


ROXY: maybe it would be better if u just did a slow fade  


DIRK: Nah, I think he likes being treated like this. It's one of those esoteric troll quadrants. The "use me and invalidate my existence" quadrant.  


ROXY: ummmm there are only 4 quads dirk thats kinna... the point  


ROXY: i kno ur bein facetious because thats basically all u do is be facetious and enigmatic  


ROXY: just maybe you should think abt this  


DIRK: I gotta go, I'll call you later.  


ROXY: mhm cya

By the time you look up again, half of the tables are empty, and the baristas are already breaking down the drink station. "Shit, we gotta go," you mumble, stuffing your phone back in your pocket. How did you manage to spend so much time talking shop with this gillhead? Ugh, your dick isn't even hard anymore. You can't decide if that makes things better or worse.

"Good, that means we can head back to my hive. I got a real important proposition for ya," he says, licking his lips with exaggerated aplomb, which makes your stomach turn over on itself.

 

Cronus's hive is just down the block from the coffee shop, which means you have very little time to talk yourself out of this course of action and come up with an excuse to bail. Going back to his hive is an even worse choice than letting him give you a handjob under the table in front of a dozen sleep-deprived freshmen, yet here you are in his lounge block somehow, sitting down on his couch and letting him unbutton your jeans. He's crouched on the floor in front of you, mumbling a monologue about how he can't wait to get his hands on your human dick, he's been waiting all week just to have your exotically stationary human bulge in front of his face again so that he can give it the royal treatment, and blah blah. It might as well be a really odious and fetishizing soliloquy for how much you're paying attention to it.

Instead of looking at him while he tugs on your dick, you look around the room, the walls of which are plastered with an eclectic mix of posters. Most of them are of 1950s stars and starlets like James Dean and Marilyn Monroe, but there's also a few of John Mayer, and some motivational posters with taglines about dreaming big and believing in yourself. There's even one of a kitten holding on to a tree branch with the slogan "Hang in there, baby!"

The kitten very nearly kills your boner, so you feel a bit of libido whiplash as the erection off-switch of fuzzy kittens in danger clashes with Cronus's hot, wet mouth sucking on your head. You have to close your eyes and lean back against the back of the couch, centering yourself after being so fantastically jerked around by circumstance and your conscience all evening. Resting your hand on the back of his head helps a little, so you grab both of his horns and thrust up into his mouth. He makes a detestable, hungry noise when you do that, so you do it again, a little harder. You hope it'll make him stop making noises that remind you that he is in fact a sentient being who will remember this encounter afterward and perhaps even mistake it as a reward for his continued existence, which it mostly definitely is not.

Instead of stopping, you can hear him trying to make word noises in his throat around your dick. Against your better judgement, you yank his head up, pulling his mouth off of you. "What?" you gasp.

"We need some mood music," Cronus says around a thick string of purple drool that hangs from his lips.

"We need you to shut up and let me fuck your face hole," you grumble, but he's already standing up and walking over to the closet, pausing only to wipe his mouth off with his hand and then smear the saliva on the knee of his jeans.

He comes back not with a laptop or CDs or anything hands-free that could be used to spin his music to giwve blovwjobs to playlist. No, he comes back with an acoustic guitar and plops himself down on the couch, one leg hooked under the other so he can turn to face you. "I'm gonna play a little something for you, real quick. This is that project I was telling you about earlier, see, I've been branching out into different human musical genres lately, and I think I've found something with the perfect mood that I want to cultivate in a certain someone." You hope that you aren't that certain someone. Please do not let you be that certain someone. "It just needs that extra splash of tender emotion that only a guy like me can add to it, which is why I'm gonna start an acoustic cover band instead of playing in the the original medium, which is kinda harsh and probably isn't gonna douse anyone's crotch hangar. I wouldn't expect you to know anything about this, but women need a delicate touch to get their wrigglies popping. I've been learning a lot about sensitivity from John Mayer lately," he says, looking reverently up at his John Mayer shrine on the opposite wall. Oh, good. You aren't the unfortunate object of Cronus's flushed affections after all.

You blink heavily several times and then look pointedly down at your erection, which is still standing straight up through your open fly, the violaceous saliva rapidly drying on it. "That's cool, bro, but I'm hearing words like 'acoustic' and 'cover band' and 'John Mayer', and I'm seriously wondering what makes you think I'm going to fit into this equation anywhere."

He licks his hand and grabs you, giving your dick a few solid strokes, just enough to keep it at attention before pulling away again and strumming the guitar randomly. The drool from his hand gets all over the fretboard, making you want to choke him with his own guitar strings for being so irreverent about his instrument. "I'm getting there. You rap, right?" he asks, and you nod hesitantly. When did you tell him that? "And you're friends with Meenah too. Like if you asked her to come to a show you were playing, she'd probably show up, yeah?" You narrow your eyes and nod again, not enthusiastic about where this seems to be going. 

"Oh man, that's swell. That's perfect, because when she hears this skillfully crafted acoustic cover--acoustic metal cover, which nobody has had the globes to try doing until I came along, because it takes a special kind of guy to re-arrange a song in such unprecedented ways--she'll have no choice but to know that I'm talking about her." He taps the fretboard excitedly, smearing more saliva around to rust on the strings later. "Or, well, you'll be rapping about her, but she'll know it's my band--we'll have to make a point to say it's my band, maybe we could even just call ourselves The Cronus Ampora Imperial Cover Band For Delicate Emotional Types, what do you think?"

_Acoustic metal cover band?_ you mouth silently to yourself while he's still caught up in how perfect his plan is. "I think this sounds like the opposite of something I want to be involved with. Metal isn't really my thing, and neither is luring my good friends to shows under false pretenses." 

You start buttoning your pants, but Cronus grabs your hand. "Wait. Just hear me out first, okay? Please? Just listen to the song. I promise there's rapping, you'll like it. It'll be a good way to get exposure for your own music. See, I'm throwing you a calcified husk strut here. That's lowblood vernacular, which I guess is _cool_ right now." He wrestles with a grimace for a moment before putting his best shit-eating grin back on. "Here, listen to this. This is the emotional core of the whole setlist."

He starts in with the opening riff of a song that sounds slightly familiar to you, but you can't quite place it. The acoustic sound and Cronus's less than stellar guitar skills are warping it too much for you to get a firm grasp on what it is. It doesn't even sound metal to you at all, it sounds like something earlier, some kind of acoustic punk or... something. 

It isn't until he starts humming the words and says, "Okay, this is where you'd come in with the rapping. It starts pretty simple, with something like 'Come my lady, come on my lady--'"

That's when it all clicks in a horrible crashing moment for you. A condensed [flashback](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S226hKbf_0k) of shitty turn of the millennium nu metal and white rappers and girls prancing around fields wearing nylon butterfly wings and dancing in the obvious pretext to an insectoid Dionysus-fueled orgy hits you like a rubber bullet, knocking you right out of any last vestige of the mood that might have still lingered. Your dick could not possibly shrink any faster than it is right at this moment. "Oh my god. No. Jesus dicks, Cronus, is that _Crazy Town_?"

Unbidden, Kankri pokes his head out of a hall door, and you have to scramble to zip your jeans over your deflated boner. "Forgive me for intruding, but I couldn't help overhearing your indignant shouting. Cronus, you didn't tell me that this cover band project involved ableist language when you asked me to play the stretched jingle bladder with you."

It's all you can do to shake your head in silent horror and hold in the terrified laughter, because once it starts you're pretty sure it'll never stop. "No. Fuck no. Hell fucking no. No amount of blowjob redemption is worth this, I gotta go." You stand up and grab your jacket, but Cronus isn't even listening to you.

"The word is _tambourine_ , okay? It's very triggering to me for you to use troll lingo so inconsiderately around me. Honestly I'd expect you to be a little more sensitive to my plight--" is the last thing you hear before letting yourself out, not that either of them seem to notice that you've left.

 

Once you get outside, the first thing you notice is that the stars are out in full force and the night is cool and quiet. Your balls ache because they're stuffed to the brim with unfulfilled promises, making you walk with a weird step as you try to massage them through your pants, but you are not even remotely aroused. The only lucky break is that everyone else on campus is too busy being holed up in their pre-finals-week study frenzy to notice that you just sat through possibly the most pathetic evening of your entire life.

The time on your phone says it's only half past midnight, so the night is still salvageable. You can go back to your place, get a little bit of work done, and then maybe take a shower to wash off the stink of miserable failure. Yeah, that sounds good.

You mess around on your phone as you walk home, cupping your balls to keep them from jiggling too much. There's a missed call from Roxy, and it's still kinda early, so you ring her back. 

"Well?" she asks with only the hint of a slur. It's her working slur, for when she's had just enough to make her amenable to doing her homework but not so much that she can't still do calculus-based physics. She doesn't bother with the pleasantries, presumably because you know she's disappointed in you. Frankly, you're pretty disappointed in yourself.

You sigh heavily. "Well nothing. Nothing happened. I didn't fuck the be-finned jackoff, so you should be happy about that."

"Hmm, yeah?" she hums over the line. "Did your conscience decide to actually show up for duty for once, or was this an outside circumstance kinda thing?"

"He stopped me mid-blowjob to ask if I would rap for his acoustic nu metal cover band. What do you fucking think?" She laughs so hard that you have to hold the phone away from your ear, and that seems very fucking fitting to you. "No, you're right. That's exactly what I deserve for having entertained this idea in the first place. Thanks, Rox. You're a pal."

"Glad to hear it. Delete his number. Oh em gee, do it right now. Hang up and do it now, you gotta promise me."

You do promise, and you make good on it too, deleting him from your contacts right as you get back to your place. That won't stop him from texting you, but it'll at least remind you of the shame you've suffered tonight and make you think twice about responding. 

When you push through your front door, you stand for a moment in your quiet apartment with your eyes closed, basking in the singular type of purple-drenched, early 2000's white-rapper horribleness trainwreck of an evening that you've just experienced. Roxy is right, you should never have encouraged him. You don't deserve to forget this with the soothing balm of hours of sheet metal soldering. You deserve to face the facts of your poor decision making. You should have to confront your choices head-on and learn your fucking lesson.

You should go to the shower right now and make yourself come, because the best possible punishment would be to live with the fact that you still kinda want to fuck Cronus Ampora, even after being asked to rap for his Crazy Town cover band.


End file.
